Waking Up to the City of the Future
by InsertImaginativeNameHere
Summary: How exactly Alexander Hamilton came to be in the present day and how he came to be working for Nelson and Murdock. Prequel-ish to the fabulous 'we keep living anyway' hamdevil au by QueenWithABeeThrone.


**A/N: Originally written and posted on AO3 for QueenWithABeeThrone. Guys, even if you don't have an AO3 account, go and read the fabulous hamdevil AU that inspired this fic here. This is a prequel to that fic. It's a bit weird, honestly, not the crossover you expect, but regardless, I hope you enjoy it.**

"One last chance, Professor, tell us who it is," Steve pointed at the figure who lay strapped to the table, the latest necromantic/scientific attempt at supernatural resurrection. Various monitors indicated life-signs, breathing and pulse, other meaningless medical data displayed on the screens. Alive; but unconscious, whoever they were.

The maniac smirked "You'll find out soon enough. _Just you wait..._ " his tone became sing-song, and he giggled a little at a joke nobody else understood. Something about the phrasing was familiar, but Steve couldn't place it.

"Great," the synthesised voice of Iron Man cut off Cap's thoughts completely, and by the time half a second had passed and Tony had flipped the mask section up, Steve had disregarded the half-remembered musical cue. "Why do we always get cryptic supervillains? Why does nobody say 'hey here I am, let me explain my evil plan' instead as trying to keep it secret and attacking us with a zombie horde. Not cool, man. Not cool."

The Professor snickered "They were dispensable, mere prototypes. My real work is far more-"

"Hey, I've got an idea, why don't you tell us all about it in the super-secret prison they'll be taking you to? That's what you get for stealing SHIELD technology, I mean even though SHIELD doesn't technically exist any more..." Tony trailed off "I'll just cut to it, stop stalling, you're going away for a long time and you may as well just tell us who this guy is." The Professor turned his head away stubbornly and refused to speak another word, to which Tony looked annoyed "Dammit, why does that never work? Whatever, take him away."

Four operatives, led by Maria Hill, ushered the mad 'scientist' (magician? Sorcerer?) away in handcuffs, dragging him off to the awaiting carrier vehicle. There was a medical team outside awaiting clearance to take the remnants of the experimentation away for testing, the person on the table included. A few shambling undead monstrosities reached out to him, their creator god, floundering and fumbling around with feeble, necrotic arms, until Natasha methodically snapped their necks, putting them out of their living hell. Some of these people had been dead for centuries, others had been murdered only last week for practise, culminating in the sole fruit of the 'professor's' labours (his right to teach had been hastily revoked after he started killing his students). A few more sentient, better-restored survivors would no doubt be tested on, something Steve couldn't help disapproving of. He pitied the 'real work' that lay unconscious on the table, what they would have to face when they came to. He knew what coming back from the dead felt like – if not dead, then waking up to a new, unfamiliar world.

Heads turned now to the body on the table, drip keeping him (it was a he) steadily sedated. All the papers referring to his identity had been presumed destroyed, probably before they even arrived, the Professor would have eagerly sought to disguise the identity of this man he had revived. Whoever he was, he was important, and when he came around would obviously play some role in the madman's plan. _'Just you wait'_. Those words echoed again, but before Steve could draw attention to them and ask the team if they knew anything about it, a quiet voice came from around the door. Bruce.

"Is it clear?" he asked, slowly stepping into the lab. This case had only just been big enough to come onto the Avenger's radar, and even then that was only because stolen technology looked like HYDRA at first glance, some of it being dangerous radioactive matieral in addition to the 'thaumaturgic energy surges', whatever that meant (Cap suspected it was a load of bull). It was only because of the radiation therefore, that Dr Banner had been called out at all.

"You wanna take a look?" Steve stepped aside, indicating the bed "See if...uh, the radiation caused anything to happen?"

"We'll need to do more intensive testing, but I doubt the levels were high enough. From what it looks like," Dr Banner adjusted his glasses and glanced at the monitors "Yeah, it looks like they just used it for cellular restoration, bringing back the dead tissue. We should uh...definitely keep him sedated until we know more."

The rest of the team nodded in agreement, and Steve radioed the medical team, telling them to bring a stretcher to carry the unconscious man from the bed to a vehicle, and from there to a proper laboratory where they could find out what had happened. As they carried him past, Clint narrowed his eyebrows.

Noticing this, Steve turned to him. "What's up?"

Clint shook it off "Nothing. He just looks really, really weirdly familiar. Insanely so."

"Yeah, he's right," Tony agreed. "It's almost like we should know him, right?"

Steve couldn't argue with that. There was something eerily familiar about this man. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

"Hey, I knew I saw a doughnut stand over there!" Tony said suddenly, as they emerged from the warehouse/badly disguised secret lab, walking over to it still in his Iron Man regalia. Immediately, they were offered free doughnuts each by the stunned stall-owner who insisted on taking selfies with all of them.

Cap insisted on paying, however, reaching for his wallet and passing the owner a handful ten dollar bills.

 **‡**

Shit went down not long after that, actually, and Dr Banner dropped off radar. The world nearly ended again, blah blah blah, Maria Hill was used to it. Fury was busy in his quasi-retirement that he kept stepping out of for the most recent disaster, but the case of the living 'dead' was not deemed important enough for him and was thus delegated to Hill. For the entirety of the Ultron débâcle, the stranger had been kept in an induced coma, and for a good few months since while tests were conducted.

Now there was nothing more pressing on their hands, Hill had decided it was time to get the scientists to brief her on the random 'Sleeping Beauty', as they referred to him ironically in the files, his impromptu code name.

"You see, the process used for physical restoration doesn't even require a full corpse, per se, even a bone fragment is enough, so we have no way of knowing when our resurrected mate comes from. All the cells are replaced, so we can't even trace that. If it wasn't for being completely unethical and the whole necromantic-murder-sacrifice thing required to retrieve the soul, this'd be the greatest invention ever, not just for bringing back the dead but potentially some _slight_ de-aging. Nothing major. You see the greying in the otherwise healthy hair?" the scientist pointed at a patch on the photos. "That's recent, since he was brought here. Body readjusting to the age it was when it died. When he arrived here, he was fully auburn, now he's more grey, and his face has gained lines. But one thing's definite – he's still a looker, in a sort of older-guy way."

None of this made particular sense to Maria Hill, but then there was nothing sensible about anything this crazy ranting Brit had to say. The woman, Dr Eve Elenburg, only had a job now because she was one of few who hadn't been a Hydra spy (she said she hadn't seen the point). Otherwise she would most definitely have been out.

"Any idea who he is?"

"Well, neither his face or DNA are registered in any modern databases, some similar faces but those guys are all alive. We dialled it back, checked some old portraiture between now and the early 1800s. Could've gone further back but it gets less reliable, not worth the effort, so we couldn't be arsed. Had a bit of a laugh when we found a considerable resemblance to that bloke off the ten dollar bill, what'shisname, I forget now."

"Alexander Hamilton?" Hill almost visibly jumped.

Elenburg nodded, oblivious to Hill's shock. "Yeah, that one. But like, everyone looks the same back then, not reliable sources at all. Could be anyone. It's not a solid lead. Trust me, we've had at least a hundred other scares before that, and over seventy others since, and none of them checked out. We've sent off for a DNA test on Hamilton's descendants see if there are any matches but that won't get back for a few days, a week at most."

"So you're saying either this test comes back positive we'll have a stray Founding Father on our hands, or if the result's negative-"

"Which it totally will be..."

"That he could be literally anyone, from any time, any place, anywhere and we have no way of knowing?"

Her subordinate beamed. "That's not entirely true. It is extremely unlikely he is from Antarctica, for example, and DNA analysis reveals he is completely human with no modification, and so is not alien, mutant or otherwise inhuman. Did the Professor spill anything to you?"

"Nope. Nothing. We tried to use truth serum but he ripped out his tongue and choked to death."

"Ha! Dead necromancers! The irony!" the scientist smirked. "We're not, however, completely out of options. Using a controlled, temporally ambiguous room with no discernible place in history, we're going to wake him up to see what he has to say about it. Would you like to be present for this?"

Of course she would; it was her job. Following the scientist to a room full of computer screens with a one-way mirror on the wall so they could observe, Hill peered in to a confined wooden room, unremarkably decorated, with a simple wooden bed and plain white sheets, under which the man lay. During the previous few weeks and months of his slumber, he had been kept in a special fluid to prevent atrophy, nutrients given via IV along with a cocktail of various sedatives. All the tubes and fluid were gone now, leaving a crumpled-looking, surprisingly small figure arranged on the bed, all tucked in nicely like a toy. Which he had been to the necromancer who had resurrected him. Whoever the guy here actually was.

Now all they had to do was wait for the man in the bed to wake up and they could send in an innocuously dressed questioner to discover the identity of their mysterious guest.

They didn't have to wait long; he was stirring already, his fingers twitching, grasping, head lolling and then, eyes opening, a brilliant blue that seemed to stare through the one-way mirror with calculating precision.

He was awake, whoever he was, Founding Father or no.

There was a sinking feeling in Hill's stomach that told her this was about to go horribly wrong. _If_ this was Alexander Hamilton...

Who was she kidding? The necromancer was a flamboyant villain type, totally up on musicals. When given the chance to bring someone back to life, who else would he chose except a bastard, orphan, son of a whore?

They could deny it for a little longer but it was inevitable.

 _Shit._ The internet was going to explode.

 **‡**

He jolted awake all of a sudden, the recoil from the gunshot throwing him back against a feather pillow, breathing heavily. He scrabbled to check the wound, see where the bullet had entered. There had been blood, he remembered blood.

There was no blood.

Where the fuck was all the blood?

The last few hours were a blur, the tang of gunpowder strong, oars on the river – Eliza! He remembered Eliza, Angelica...piecing it together, he realised he remembered not only the duel with Burr, but its aftermath – he remembered _dying_.

Then, nothing.

Then, faint images and fleeting half-recollections. There was a mirror on the wall. He felt the distinct sensation of being watched.

All of this was impossible.

Was this the afterlife? No, he disregarded that, this was undoubtedly real. He was alive.

But where was he?

He voiced this query out loud, in a hoarse, barely audible whisper. Not at his own home, not anywhere he had been before. Propping himself up on the peculiar-feeling white pillows, he looked around again.

False, that was what the room felt like. A stage all set ready for a play. It was not a _real_ bedroom. There was something very odd going on.

"Betsy?" he asked, hopelessly, and sighed. The door to the room opened. "Who the hell are you?" he began on the offensive immediately, even before the person was in view. "Where am I? Why am I here? Where is my wife?" Then, a thought – there was no wound, there was not even a scar. "How long have I been unconscious for?"

A man in a long overcoat entered the room, sporting an impressive moustache. "We shall get around to that shortly, sir. Do you know your name?"

"Yes," he snapped testily. "Why, don't you?" The man winced, and Alexander realised he had hit a nerve. "You don't. Well. I fail to see any justification for telling you." Which raised many more questions – how had Alexander got here, how did these people not know who he was? Who were they? Where _was_ here?

"There is no need to be rude," the man folded his arms, evidently irritated. _Great. Awake for five minutes, and you're already making a nuisance of yourself. Nice work, Alexander. It must be a gifting. That's why you got shot in the first place, you fool._

Alexander snorted. He didn't care that this gentleman was in any way irked. So be it. Until he got answers, Alexander planned to give away nothing.

"Excuse me? You would not believe the day I've been having. I got shot! I'm pretty certain I died! So what is it then, this place? Some sort of asylum? You think me mentally disturbed? Explain yourself. Where is my wife? My children?"

"We don't know," the man admitted "Since we don't know who you are. We don't know who your wife is. Do you – do you know what year it is?"

They _did_ think he was insane, damn them! Well. He'd show them.

"1804, _anno domini,_ " he said, with no small degree of sarcasm. "Where am I?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Burr's gunshot – Eliza – pain, _death_...impossibilities. It was- he shook it off. They still had not answered his questions. They? There was only one person here, but it felt like there were more behind the door, plotting and scheming devils, manipulating his fate without knowing even his name.

"I shan't dignify that with an answer, unless you tell me what the hell is going on, you evasive, despicable, mealy-mouthed piece of canine effluvia."

The man looked panicked, glancing frantically at the mirror, as if seeking help. Was there someone on the other side? A window disguised as a mirror?

"I'm afraid I don't know how to begin-"

"At the beginning. It seems that amidst other failings, you are unfamiliar with the workings of storytelling. I shouldn't be surprised." He really couldn't abstain from being contemptuous right now. "Enough of all this roundabout nonsense and get to the point. Honestly, you're almost as bad as Jefferson."

The man froze "Jefferson?" Alexander wondered if he'd given too much information. Surely not. Knowing Thomas Jefferson was hardly a completely foreign concept and disliking him was even more frequent, even among those who had never had the displeasure to make his acquaintance, although admittedly it was doubly so among those who had. "As in Thomas Jefferson?"

"Who else?" Alexander muttered. "Our current president. A man more ill-suited to the role would be hard to find, yet he somehow manages to surround himself with as many as possible. Perhaps that is a requirement to be his friend, and why we have never been on good terms."

"Shit," the man's voice suddenly changed, becoming almost awestruck. "We joked about this. It's you! It's him!" he yelled, to no-one in particular. The person or persons unknown behind the mirror? He seemed ecstatic. Not the usual reaction. "Mr Hamilton, sir?" Reluctantly, Alexander nodded. "It's an honour. Seriously. I learnt about you in history class." History? How long- "Went to see the musical with my significant other." Musical? "Shit – sorry. I'd better explain. Look, simply now, to cut a long story short-"

"Already rather too late for that I'm afraid." _And, I fear, too late for anything._ _History_ _class..._

"Yeah, sorry. Oh...look, it's 2015. We don't say anno domini anymore, it's officially called common era. It's been 211 years since you died, and they just made a really freaking awesome play based on your life. Coolest shit." Presumably, this was a good thing. Hadn't language just changed, so very much?

"Then how, pray, am I here?"

"Sort of science, sort of magic. Don't look at me like that, I didn't have anything to do with it, though I'm not complaining." the man looked nervous, as if he were meeting a hero. "Sorry?"

"Let me clarify this, and this is very important: everyone I know is dead? My wife? My children?" Tears sprung to his eyes. "You can go. I doubt you need anything more from me now, you can look it all up in your damn history books."

"I'm so sorry, Mr Hamilton, sir," the man bowed awkwardly out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He had never given his name.

Lying back on the heap of pillows, Alexander felt truly helpless.

 **‡**

DNA tests – positive.

Because of course.

How the hell did they deal with this one? Even Cap had struggled to adjust to the modern day and he hadn't been out of it for two centuries, hadn't _literally_ founded America. The timing couldn't have been worse, what with the musical out at the moment, and it didn't take long for the story to break; the dead necromancer's remaining notes surfaced, added to the presence of a man visiting Elizabeth Hamilton's grave once a week (it was her husband's first request upon meeting Hill), added to the fact _somebody_ in the department had decided letting Hamilton use a computer was a good idea and they'd had to stop him commenting on articles about Jefferson sarcastically...(they'd had to block urbandictionary too) the realisation that Alexander Hamilton was alive hit the world by storm and Hill was left reluctantly trying to brief the walking thesaurus for his first public appearance (the meeting with Obama did not count, having been kept under wraps and not filmed). He was taking notes. So far his notes were over twenty pages. Hill was only thankful the interview would not be airing live and was to be released tomorrow afternoon. She was thankful for this because Hamilton had taken to calling people 'colossal dickbags' and refused to listen to anything she said.

He literally did not stop. It was like a child who'd got the crayons and was drawing all over the wall, only more eloquently.

After the initial shock and heartbreak of losing everyone he knew, he seemed to take the modern day in his stride.

"Do you need anything?" Hill had asked, a couple of weeks ago when they first met, back in the days when she thought the Founding Fathers were figures of respect and awe. "I could arrange some history books, you can brush up on what you missed."

Hamilton had shrugged. He had seemed a little despondent lately, Hill could hardly blame him. He'd been through a lot. For him right then it had only been a few days ago, after all, that Aaron Burr had fatally shot him, and now he was in a New World, in the chronological sense rather than geographical. Everything had changed.

"I would like a writing desk," he had said quietly. "Some books covering what I missed would be much appreciated, writing materials, and whatever the internet is. And I want to visit my family's graves."

It had been heart-rending to watch him pay his respects. He'd asked to come again next week, and despite having more pressing responsibilities, she had honoured that promise. Now she regretted it. There were photos, goddammit. Verified photographs of Alexander Hamilton; from a distance, sure, but in existence. They would have attempted a cover up if he hadn't been so active online; Maria really regretted giving him that computer. He had enjoyed the books, sure, had laughed hysterically at the 1812 War ('ha Madison you idiot!') and snickered slightly at the Civil War ('typical Southern fools, focused entirely on owning people rather than anything sensible. I like this Lincoln fellow, by the way – WAIT NO YOU NEVER SAID HE WAS MURDERED'). He finished too quickly and more had to be sought out. Everything from Prohibition to in-depth discussions of the two World Wars, to Civil Rights (which pleased him, until MLK was assassinated too – 'this seems to be a recurrent theme in history'). So yes, he enjoyed the books, but it was the computer that had won him over. He read articles online about cultural changes and had to be stopped several times from commenting on Republican forums with remarks like 'is this 1804? Again?'. Admittedly, he also watched cat videos sometimes, justifying it as studying modern culture. Apparently.

All in all, he was hard work. If he started talking at length about anything, you gave up and declared the whole day a dead loss. There was a slang already developing around it: 'sorry I got held up, Code Ham, you know?', 'Wow bro look, there's a Code Ham going down', and 'Red Alert Red Alert, I've got a Code Ham in progress and I need an excuse to leave quick'. If anyone asked why you were late for a meeting, it was simply 'Code Ham'. Nobody ever explained what it meant. It was universally understood by everyone and that was the beginning and the end of it.

And that was _not_ good for his first interview, because he had an appalling tendency to motor-mouth at the best of times and that was impossible to rehearse or rectify.

" _Talk less. Smile more,_ " Hill quoted through gritted teeth as she showed Hamilton into the room, where a carefully selected team of journalists were waiting. This could go one of two ways.

One: an overly obnoxious former Treasure Secretary talks over all the interviewers and goes on for four or more hours about irrelevant shit.

Two: an overly obnoxious former Treasure Secretary talks at roughly the right times questions have been asked and still goes on for four or more hours about irrelevant shit.

Which one it was really depended on what questions got asked.

Option three: it is the most memorable and viral video of the year, honestly would never have occurred to her.

 **‡**

 **Top 10 Most Memorable Moments From Alexander Hamilton's Reappearance vid (surprise - he's even saltier than we thought!)**

 **10\. His opening line:** 'Okay so fuck this microphone. I've never used a microphone before but even I know this is a shitty microphone. This is like what would happen if you put the Republicans in charge of sound systems.'

 **9\. When he was asked if he was a fraud:** 'Why? What would I be trying to achieve? Also, I'm not an easy person to impersonate. I pity the actors playing me.'

 **8\. On Thomas Jefferson:** 'I've been learning to use the internet lately and I recently found out you can create extensions. I've set up one that autocorrects Thomas Jefferson's name to Dickbag Jefferstinks. I have absolutely no regrets about this and I urge the people of America to do that same'

 **7\. On Donald Trump:** 'Who the fuck is he?'

 **6\. When asked what being dead felt like:** 'Like being at a Republican party. See what I did there? Why do I even bother getting myself resurrected. I'm still not appreciated. That's a joke, by the way'

5\. **When congratulated on his modern slang:** 'Dude, I'm a fucking writer. I know how to adapt and use words. If I didn't have a good word memory I'd still be dead, in Saint Croix. Does Saint Croix still exist, I never checked? It wasn't a particularly interesting place to be honest'

 **4\. On John Adams:** 'If someone could have prevented his parents from meeting that would have been a blessing on us all. I've never known anyone be such a waste of air, skin and time simultaneously, a man who never said anything useful. Nobody knows how he became President. Oh wait, he ran against Jefferson. Never mind'

 **3\. On the success of the musical:** 'I mean, I'm flattered. I've been downtown and seen the signs everywhere, it's fucking terrifying. On the plus side, it means I get the last laugh. Not the Dickbag- sorry, I'm not supposed to use that word- not Our Beloved Third President Thomas Jefferson. Because fuck him'

 **2\. About making it onto the Ten Dollar bill and his possible removal:** 'I mean I invented your monetary and banking system but sure take me off the currency not that asshole Andrew Jackson. Fuck that guy'

 **1\. When asked about whether his return was a sign of the impending apocalypse:** 'Everyone is fond of predicting the end of days, always have been even when I was young. They always look ridiculous in retrospect. Most of them look ridiculous in present tense too. Like you, my dear fellow. What even is that haircut? Is that even hair? Perhaps, and I say this as kindly as possible, consider taking up powdered wigs again, at least they looked sensible at the time?'

 **‡**

"I'm not sure if that was a disaster or the most perfect thing ever created. When that's edited up we will have a perfect internet-breaking shitfest," one of the journalists said to another as they left. "Cannot believe this guy founded our nation. It's amazing. I'm so proud of our country."

Overhearing this, Alexander smiled. He'd been studying all day for that performance and was quite pleased he'd managed to hold it together long enough. His philosophy was this, and he'd seen it embroidered on a tea towel online – 'give no fucks'. And he didn't. Right now, he should have been dead. He wasn't going to try and revive his political career or his reputation, no, he didn't care. It was frightening how much he'd ceased to care, about anything.

It was that emptiness inside. He'd lost so much. It didn't matter what he said or did now because he couldn't replace his old life, the way things used to be. More than anything, he wanted to walk home to Betsy and take her in his arms and apologise for everything. But his home was a museum now, and she was gone. Gone.

He was not staying with the government, that was certain. They'd want him to _do_ things. He didn't really feel up to having an actual career.

Hill looked disapproving. Good for her.

"I mean, that could have been worse. It wasn't four hours long, which is a plus," she said, eventually.

"Four hours is nothing. I talked for six hours at the continental congress," Alexander replied.

"That's really not something to be proud of."

He swelled with pride. "Thank you." A pause. "Listen, Hill. I've been thinking, I want to go and do my own thing. I don't want to be fettered to what I was, back then. I'd like to go, if you don't mind."

"Are you sure?" He nodded. "Then good luck. We've set up an account for you, should get you started. Good luck."

Sure thing. He was going to need it.

Just like he needed a place to stay, and a job, and some way of making money. He considered a few things. He could, if needed, if really desperate, thrive off his reputation. But he would really rather not have. There was enough money in his new account for an apartment, but he needed to find a way of paying for it in the long term that did not involve using his past.

It was fate then, that brought him to Nelson and Murdock, by complete coincidence.

He was walking the next day, soon before the interview was to be released online. Since his return, he paced a lot, walked the streets, stared up at the golden posters with his name on. How surreal. _Who lives who dies who tells your story?_ He snorted. Everybody had died. Just as he was thinking this, he went crashing into a complete stranger, falling over himself to the floor.

"Woah, dude, are you okay?" the man said, not seeming annoyed, only concerned. "You look rough."

"I'm fine," Alexander replied, knowing damn well it was a complete lie. His voice cracked unconvincingly as he spoke, and the stranger, a young fellow with long hair, helped him up.

"Nuh-uh. I know that tone and I know when someone's bullshitting. Trust me. I'm a lawyer." He winked. "Foggy Nelson." He extended a hand, and Alexander shook it cautiously. "You look like a guy who needs a drink and someone to talk to. I know it's only lunchtime, but hey, got to live a little, am I right?"

Without further ado, Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson hauled Alexander Hamilton off to a bar without so much as realising who the fuck it was he was dragging around. He was an exuberant, friendly gentleman, inherently compassionate. He even offered to pay for drinks, and Alexander couldn't have been more grateful.

"What's bothering you, then...sorry, didn't catch your name."

"Alex. You can call me Alex. I-" He was lost for words all of a sudden. That didn't happen often. "I just found out my family and friends are all dead."

"Jesus," Foggy looked stunned "What happened?"

"It was long time ago. I wasn't there. I made a mistake, and ending up being separated from them. It should never have happened. I'd be with them now if I hadn't messed up." _If I hadn't thrown away my shot._

Foggy seemed to take this in, then think for a while. "Don't blame yourself. Trust me. My best friend, Matt, he's totally wrapped up in his guilt sometimes. Catholic. When he was a kid, his dad died, for him. It's insane. Point is, you can't blame yourself. Don't let the guilt consume you."

"This friend-"

"My partner. We have a firm, Nelson and Murdock." Foggy beamed proudly. "He's the best damn lawyer I've ever seen."

"You've never seen me, then." Alexander couldn't resist bragging slightly. "I'm out of work at the moment, but shit man, when I was a lawyer I was good." Burr was better. "I was really fucking good."

The younger man looked concerned. "I hope you get a job, Alex. You seem like a nice guy. I'd ask you to come work for us, but we're not exactly hotshots, you know?"

"You would be if you hired me." Alexander winked. "I could bring in a lot of business."

Certain it was a joke, Foggy laughed. "We did just totally take down a crime boss recently. It was freaking awesome. I'll have to introduce you to Matt, he'd like you. He's a great guy. Was my room-mate at Columbia."

Columbia. Formerly King's. "I went there too." Before the Revolution, before the name change.

"Wow, really? Should definitely introduce you to Matt then. My break's almost over. If you want to come round to our office."

Of course he did.

Following Foggy through Hell's Kitchen, he couldn't help smiling as the younger man talked and talked excitably about this that and the other. By the time they got back to the offices of Nelson and Murdock, there was a woman waiting outside, tapping her foot impatiently.

"You're late," she said, fixing Foggy with a glare.

"A wizard is never late!" boomed Foggy. "Karen, this is Alex. Alex, this is Karen."

Karen narrowed her eyebrows. "Foggy, you idiot. You absolute 'dickbag'," she smiled, and Alexander knew she'd seen the video. Meanwhile Foggy looked confused. "You've not seen it yet, then? I thought you were just playing it casual. Better get inside before the fans find you, heh."

They headed upstairs, Foggy looking at Alexander in bewilderment. 'What did I do?' he mouthed. Karen led them into an office and opened a laptop that was sitting on the table.

"If you'd been here, Foggy, you'd know that a certain person gave an interview today."

"Who?" Foggy asked, impatiently.

" _The Ten Dollar Founding Father, without a father..._ " Karen grinned wickedly as she rapped the line. Foggy froze, and turned slowly to look at Alexander.

"You mean- when you said you went to Colum- your family- holy shit! Alexander Hamilton! Dude! I was so happy when I found out you were back, I am _the_ biggest fan. Uh, you know what fan means, right?"

Karen scoffed. "Trust me Fog, he knows what _a lot_ of words mean, most of them ones you don't expect him to. 'Dickbag Jefferstinks'? Seriously? I thought you were nearly fifty, not five."

Alexander couldn't prevent a smile escaping. "To be fair, it is an accurate as fuck description, you know? Very, very apt."

"I love it. Matt! Get in here brother! We've got a Founding Father in the office!" Foggy sighed. "Goddammit you would so boost our client numbers if you were being serious, and if we could afford you, we'd hire you right away."

"I'm not looking for much," Alexander said quietly. "I don't want to go back into politics. Like I said, I was a lawyer, and I was fairly good. I'd like to do that again. Would you genuinely hire me though? I can be a bit abrasive."

Foggy laughed "Trust me, it's all cool. Oh, remind me – we are so taking you to see the musical at some point." And there it was, Foggy making plans for the future. "There's a place available around the corner I know someone looking to sell, we can get you some neat furniture, oh hey, Matt!" A handsome man in a smart suit and round red sunglasses entered the room slowly, a cane in one hand, the other hand feeling the wall. Blind. A blind lawyer. Well, justice _is_ blind, as they said.

"Matthew Murdock, prepare yourself. Guess who we have on our payroll as of now?"

Matt raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "I can guess, but you won't want me to ruin your moment."

" _This is not a moment, it's a movement, where all the hungriest brothers with something to prove –_ fuck I forgot the line. Look, it's a work in progress! Matt, ask him his name. Please. JUST DO IT!"

"Fine, Foggy." He turned in the vague direction of Alexander and suddenly the older man felt under a strange sort of indescribable sightless scrutiny. " _What's your name, man?_ "

" _Alexander Hamilton."_


End file.
